Thursday, January 26, 2017

He had arrived home the evening before when my wife Jack was putting out some trash. Earlier, her youngest son Poté had crushed numerous shoe boxes of hers after taking out the shoes, because he was concerned they were potential hiding spots for a rat that moved into the house during December.

Her shoes were stacked at the back of her sons' den area.

Jack was not home when he did this, and was not at all pleased. Many of her shoe boxes were stacked on various shelves and likely out of reach of any rat. But now with all of her shoes without individual containers, there is no way to stack them ─ they will have to be bagged up or otherwise stored.

We are talking here of at least 20 boxes of shoes.

Poté had also put out a couple of bags of trash.

Anyway, when Mark arrived home two evenings ago, he had some discussion with her out there in the open carport where the three garbage bins are (one each for trash, recyclable material, and compost matter). It happened that he was putting out the bin of recyclable material for emptrying the following day, and there was more than the bin could accommodate. Thus, some of the crushd boxes are awaiting the next such pick-up in two weeks.

But the trash bin was also overfull with a couple of bags sitting outside of it, yet the bin is not due for emptying until next week.

All well and fine.

But last evening after he was home from the bar, he was seated at the dining room table reading his mail and the free latest edition of The Leader while I watched the latest episode of Chicago Fire.

When the episode was at least 75% finished, he finally joined me in the darkened living room, and had no sooner sat down than he started quietly bitching about the trash buildup of the previous evening, ranting on and on about how he did not like it, and is Jack bringing home garbage from a restaurant where she may be working?

Actually, he did not ask ─ he was stating it as if it was a fact. He didn't like it, and it has to stop.

Now, as I said, he was speaking quietly ─ not because he was being calm and considerate, for he was drunk; rather, he bitches and rants like this to me because he doesn't want Jack's two sons to hear him.

And he would not stop.

What the hell did he and Jack talk about the previous evening outside? Did he not learn from her what all the trash build-up was about?

Or had his besotted brain already lost that information?

I tried waving him off, indicating I wanted to focus on the emotional bit in the televison programme I was well into, but he had to keep nattering ─ he can't help in.

Furious, I blew up, exclaiming to him to shut up about this because I wanted to watch the show. But I practically yelled out to him that the garbage was put out there by Poté as a result of a big clean-up he had done in the den area he shares with his older brother, and that Jack is NOT bringing home garbage from anywhere.

I was in a rage because he constantly does this to me ─ he will come home and soon drunkenly be quietly ranting at me about how much he does not like finding the kitchen counter cluttered up with dirty dishes, nor the sink in a similar state.

This is his favourite rant. But he only says it to me ─ not to those who are making the mess. He seems to delight in upsetting me during the only part of the day I find any enjoyment ─ the few hours in the evening when I watch some T.V. and enjoy some drinks.

I have my own aggravations over my two step-sons, and the girlfriend that the younger one has practically living here. There are times when I feel I cannot endure more.

To have Mark add to the emotional burden by unloading upon me as if it is my fault becomes unbearable. The prick is my younger brother by 2 ¾ years ─ not my elder brother. It is an affront to me to be treated in such inconsiderate and shoddy fashion.

I don't rant and rave about my dissatisfactions with life to him ─ so I do not need or deserve him unloading upon me with no regard for my sensibilities. He carries on as if he is the only one of us capable of suffering stress, and I am living some idyllic life of perfection with not a thought or worry in the world.

It is unspeakably selfish, and he has done it for years.

When I was done with my outburst, he was then waving me off, saying, "Okay. Okay."

But then he had to add, "My retirement is imminent. And so is the sale of this house."

I retorted with a loud snarl, "Alright, go ahead and be miserable."

He and I are co-owners of the house, but he was the one who put a $40,000 down payment on the place. Thus, he is the majority owner.

If he forces for a sell, it is impossible for me to buy him out. Hell, I cannot even afford to take over his share of the various expenses like the annual property taxes, utilities, and home insurance if he was to just walk away.

I only have a small pension. He works as a self-employed truck driver for a cartage firm, and has money to burn seven days a week in the bar.

I live a life of social isolation in this house because I have no friends. I cannot afford to go out for a drink. I cannot even afford to keep myself stocked with the amount of drink I wish that I could have to enjoy each evening. I have to budget myself and pace out what I can afford accordingly, drinking with restraint to try and extend my daily allotment over the evening.

I don't know what he thinks, but if he wound up living on his own in an apartment, he would probably be dead within a couple of years. It's a 50/50 chance that he will pass out in front of the T.V. on any evening. Occasionally someone has to turn off the stove because he is unconscious and he left his supper cooking.

But how would he fare coming home to an empty apartment anyway? Not a soul to talk to.

He has a girlfriend, but Bev and he often cannot bear to even spend the one night a week that they normally try to share at her home. They both like to drink to excess, and then cannot get along.

It would be impossible for the two of them to have a home together, unless they mostly gave up drinking.

He wouldn't be able to bear being all alone night after night in some apartment. He may rant to me about my step-sons (as do I here in my blog), but they are still company for him ─ he often engages in conversation with them. More than do I, in fact.

If the house had to be sold, it would mark the end of my marriage ─ sad thing that it is now anyway. I would not share an apartment with my wife if it would also include one or both of her sons. It would be too small a space. They are young men aged 22 and 19, and I have no intention of living with them beyond our current arrangement in this house.

I definitely will not share an apartment with my brother ─ the miserable sod. And especially so if he forces the sale of our house.

I have been upset all today, and I was that way through the night ─ last evening's unsettlement would not ease away. I do not enjoy raging at anyone ─ even my brother when he's an obnoxious prick,

In my mind, once this household breaks up, I will probably soon die. I only see myself as being alone. I won't be able to afford much of a place to live in, and will probably just give up most of my possessions, such as my computer ─ my futile attempt over these past eight years to earn a second income online will be at a full stop.

I am 67. I do not want to reach 70 if this is the best that my life is going to be. This is why I am coming to view this blog as an extremely long suicide note.

Changing topics now, a couple of days ago I posted some photos that Jack may have taken last November 3 ─ she charged the flight fare last Fall to go back to visit her mother at the family home in Nong Soong, a big village maybe a 15-minute or so drive from Udon Thani, Thailand.

The photos were of the exterior of a temple unknown to me. The following two photos are images of an orchid apparently on the grounds of the temple:

These next photos were taken nearly three hours later. If they are from the same area, I cannot say:

This is a selfie of Jack:

Three more selfies by Jack:

And I will stop there for today ─ there are just too many more from that scenic garden area.

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Have you any digestion issues? If so, you might enjoy this article by Dr. Marc S. Micozzi:

To me, it stands to perfect reason that any natural means that might prevent the onset of Alzheimer's disease is something that anyone concerned about the disease ought to pay some attention to.

Many people are thought to be genetically predisposed to develop Alzheimer's disease, yet a review of 21 studies has concluded that DHA ─ an omega-3 fatty acid ─ can prevent the disease from developing if action is taken soon enough.

I am pushed for time, so I will not get into my own concerns relating to everything GMO.

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I have a feeling that my monthly pension is not going to arrive until next Tuesday. I have been unable to shop for anything since early last week.

I cannot keep living this life I have.

I am going to close out today's post now with this journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting the small quarters in a house located on Ninth Street, and maybe one or two houses up from Third Avenue.

MONDAY, January 26, 1976

I was hit pretty bad last night with indigestion, but it let up after I fell asleep; I arose about 5:20 a.m.

I was first to the laundromat this morning, but was immediately followed by a dark woman; a dark man later came in when my drying was mostly finished.

Nothing in the store moved me to purchase; I was turned on by a sexy scantily-clad female on a pocketbook novel, but my lusts weren't strong enough to persuade me to sample any pornography.

I went to Woodward's, first fruitlessly searching for some decent pants; I bought a can of their peanut butter ($2.25) and some NaCO.

Then I spent over half an hour in the library; so many books, as usual, casually interested me that I left with nothing in indecision. I later wished I'd checked out one or two on various of the aspects of well-being, for I found myself terribly bored.

In the early afternoon I found my appetite too much to reckon with, so I indulged in some filling up; I love mom's bread.

I, while looking over my Western Lottery tickets as I've so often done before, discovered that the preliminary draw is on Friday coming ─ not one month later as I'd believed all along. Maybe January will be kind to me yet! 'Tis perhaps then fortuitous I did not succumb to the lustful tendencies of my mind this day.

I walked to Bill's in a downpour (the rain compelled me to forget an idea of running 5 miles at the school track tonight), and came home in rain later.

Bill fed me some peanuts.

Bed at 10:15 p.m.

The laundromat was very near to the public library on Sixth Avenue; and Woodward's was almost across the street from the library. The store where the pornographic paperback tempted me was likely the Bluebird, but I now have no memory of it.

Woodward's peanut butter in a 48-ounce tin was probably the best around. As for NaCO...I have no idea what I was referring to. Maybe I meant NaCl (salt)?

Had I obtained the pornographic novel, I likely would have sought release. Morally conscious soul that I was, I truly believed that in not yielding to the temptation to buy that book, God would likely reward my good conduct the day of the Western Lottery draw.

My old friend William Alan Gill only lived about four or so blocks from my room, in a bachelor suite he was renting. I probably went there to watch some colour T.V. ─ he had a fairly large model, whereas I only had a smaller black & white.

How I wish today that I had an old friend like Bill whom I could walk over to and visit!